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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29785050">imperfect storm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarishGarchomp/pseuds/GarishGarchomp'>GarishGarchomp</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Drabble, Hellmouth Sunbeams (Blaseball Team), Season 11, just a lil anxiety</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:47:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29785050</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarishGarchomp/pseuds/GarishGarchomp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long siesta. Lot of time to think about the new season. Lot of time to think about the last one.</p>
<p>Lot of time to wonder how much has changed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>imperfect storm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hiya, I'm super new to this and, really, to writing for any fandom outside of my OG one. After discovering Blaseball right as the Grand Siesta started, on/off waffling on a team to get behind for months, doing an entire NaNoWriMo elsewhere and then burning out afterwards... leave it to me to throw together a lowkey lil drabble like this literally at 10 PM on the eve of Blaseball's return. Wasn't sure if I'd post since it's literally the first thing I've written for it all, but a friend encouraged me to, so... thanks, friend! &lt;3</p>
<p>Also, I would die for Lars. </p>
<p>That is all.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Iggy's pretty sure there isn’t supposed to be a draft in here.</p>
<p class="p1">Sigmund may be a castle, and one with enough alternate universes to make them stop believing in reality itself, but they damn well know how to regulate temperature in here. Especially after Miguel discovered that pristinely-kept wine cellar after last season.</p>
<p class="p1">But the chill runs straight through them, forcing out a shiver, flicking embers onto the stone. </p>
<p class="p1">It’s not a new feeling, this, but it’s unfamiliar. It all is. </p>
<p class="p1">They hear footsteps down the hall. Brisk, light, as if their owner could levitate everywhere but likes too much the <em>experience</em> of walking, the <em>feeling</em> of it all.</p>
<p class="p1">Iggy doesn’t turn to see him walk in, just stares past the television. </p>
<p class="p1">“Hey there,” Lars says. Iggy doesn’t look at him, but they know at least two of those arms are giving friendly little half-waves. “Anything good on?”</p>
<p class="p1">Iggy shakes their head. “Not quite, no.”</p>
<p class="p1">Lars approaches, then stops at the side of the sofa. Pauses. Digs into the cushions. </p>
<p class="p1">“You know where the remote is? Swear I had just set it here when I left…”</p>
<p class="p1">“There.” Iggy nods, gesturing towards the pile of neon-colored beanbag chairs that Miguel bought last month from Sol knows where. They’re almost as bright as Sol too, for that matter. It just makes the black brick of a remote lodged into one that much more apparent.</p>
<p class="p1">Lars doesn’t go fetch it. He regards it for a moment, before sitting down next to Iggy, both of them vaguely lip-reading the reporter running down the back half of the news. They must have gotten someone new on the lighting crew recently, because those blood-red eyes and jagged tusks really pop off the screen now.</p>
<p class="p1">“Opening day nerves?” he asks, gently, Sol almighty it’s stupid how he can zero right in on something with a touch softer than Howell’s tail. </p>
<p class="p1">Iggy sighs, still unable to look at their teammate.</p>
<p class="p1">“Do you feel it too?” they ask.</p>
<p class="p1">Lars exhales through his nose. They can hear the smile when he says, “You might need to be a little more specific there, Iggy.”</p>
<p class="p1">Now they turn to him. </p>
<p class="p1">“Just… what do we do now?”</p>
<p class="p1">When Lars pauses, letting the question sink in, that’s all the opportunity needed for the dam to burst.</p>
<p class="p1">“We <em>did it</em>, Lars. We charged the mound, we lifted the trophy, we scrubbed poor Sigmund down after that one night. And we sat on that for… for way too long, and now we have to go back out as if nothing’s changed, as if we’re not <em>defending champs</em>, as if we won’t have a target on us from who even knows? And...” They swivel, putting their legs up on the sofa and crossing them. “And all it took to get us to this point? Our worst season ever, the collapse of the sun, literal god-slaying, multiple blessings, absolutely bonkers weather, regular season success beyond our dreams, and what else? What else had to go exactly right for us to reach the summit in the first place?”</p>
<p class="p1">It takes a couple seconds for the reply, but it feels like it’s not a beat skipped at all.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well, you said it.”</p>
<p class="p1">Iggy stares at Lars, two infernal, pupil-less eyes at one unwavering portal. It could be a contest lasting well into Season 20 if they wanted. </p>
<p class="p1">Lars blinks and grins after about three seconds. “Us.”</p>
<p class="p1">A hundred different reactions all congeal in Iggy’s throat, until all that’s left is a whimper. “I mean… yeah…” they say, quietly. They think about the predictions, the listicles, the idle chatter, the hot-take merchants. All of it settles in the pit of their stomach amongst the bile. None of it is worth bringing up in the face of Lars’ beaming guise.</p>
<p class="p1">He picks up a baseball on the stand next to the sofa, tossing it from one hand to the next, and the next, and the next.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. Blaseball is a game of storms, perfect and imperfect.”</p>
<p class="p1">Lars drops the ball. It’s absolutely not on purpose, but he tries to play it off as if it was, starting right back where he left off.</p>
<p class="p1">“All of us weather them, every game of every season, whether it yields 60 wins or 60 losses. And either way, and no matter how many swaps or black holes or peanuts try to get in our way, we come out the other side the same every time: as the Sunbeams. As a team.”</p>
<p class="p1">The ball orbits Lars once, then twice, before he plops it in Iggy’s lap. </p>
<p class="p1">They turn to the TV. It’s replaying the segment from the top of the hour. Some nerd’s (not their Nerd’s) predictions on the season that lay ahead. </p>
<p class="p1">It’s not kind to them, not even on mute.</p>
<p class="p1">Iggy shakes their head. “Can’t be lovable losers when we’ve all got rings, huh,” they say.</p>
<p class="p1">Lars laughs. “I suppose we’ll have to settle for just being lovable.” </p>
<p class="p1">He’s got an almost conspiratorial look in his astral facsimile of an eye when he faces them. “I’ve still only got the one star. You’re not exactly Nagomi at the plate. We’ve made a family on the brink of hell. We have many truly awful outings ahead of us to enjoy, Iggy. Absolutely, wonderfully putrid.”</p>
<p class="p1">They smile, nodding to themselves. The news moves on to a segment from the cat cafe. The last footage of the Beams they show is a strikeout from Hendricks, a wildly inaccurate cut that looks as if the professor was trying to redistribute his batting average elsewhere in the league.</p>
<p class="p1">It makes Iggy’s heart swell with pride.</p>
<p class="p1">“We sure do, yeah.”</p>
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